


One of Madeleine's Boy

by rei_c



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-10
Updated: 2006-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1287730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The memories he has feel as if they belong to another person, as if he is viewing someone else’s life in a reflection, and Madeleine can tell when he thinks about this...</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Madeleine's Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Set in a Parisian brothel, if that tells you anything.

He can feel another one coming. 

It starts like they always do, a sinuous throbbing at the base of his skull that will twist and crawl through his brain until it reaches behind his ears, dives into two sunken knots, as if something has rubbed the bone away there, permanently pressing itself into his skin. The pounding will build, he knows, for a day or two, until the whole back of his head feels like air being ripped apart by thunder. And the moment he collapses in a boneless heap of agonised nerves, it will spread, insinuating itself behind green eyes, across the smooth plane of his forehead, under every root of messy black hair. He will scream, and Madeleine will feed him pills to keep him unconscious until the pain passes, headache burrowing deep inside his mind and waiting patiently for the next time. 

But now it is just beginning, a slow crescendo of pain in his neck and nothing compared to the man on top of him, digging teeth and nails into his skin, drawing blood and feeding welts from before the sex with saliva. The man’s face contorts in a parody of pleasure above him, crooked and grimy teeth in front of his face, the man’s eyes closed as he grunts and then shudders once, twice. 

He lays there as the man finally moves out of him, rolls off of him, dresses, and laughs. “One day yet,” he says, throwing a handful of francs on the mattress. The man leaves, then, slamming the door behind him, and the boy, still naked on the bed, closes his eyes and sinks into the pain. 

\--

He doesn’t quite recall how he’d ended up here in Montmartre, one of Madeleine’s boys. The time before is a blur, pictures of Paris and Rennes-des-Cœurs, the image of his _maman_ , a tired woman only fifteen years older, who talks about his père as if he was a one-night stand, because he was. He sees that he loves his _maman_ and leaves her because of that love, because he is too much trouble to have around when she buys food, clothes, a place to sleep. He doesn’t remember his name from before, but knows it was different than Henri, the name Madeleine gave to him when she found him. 

The memories he has feel as if they belong to another person, as if he is viewing someone else’s life in a reflection, and Madeleine can tell when he thinks about this, just as she can tell when he thinks about his _maman_ , wonders about his père. She lays a hand on his shoulder, every time, and murmurs about how she values him, how awful his life was before she took him in. He used to tell her, fresh-faced and more naïve than he is now, that it worked out in the end. He used to believe that, that his _maman_ was better off with only herself to worry about, that Mère Madé is lucky to have the use of a boy who feels no pain. Now, he merely stays silent, knowing that it is better to say nothing, to pretend that he feels everything but pain when, instead, he feels nothing except the pain of his headaches—no joy when they leave, no sorrow when they return, no measure of anything he could rightfully own: anger, envy, hatred, happiness. He is one of Madeleine’s boys; here, in her house, the others feel everything. 

Sometimes, when his head pounds so hard that the world around him grows and shrinks in rhythm, he sees things that are not real, things where his _maman_ has no place and his life before Montmartre can’t be found. A hand over his mouth, holding a handkerchief laced with some chemical or poison. A man with scraggly black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a pleading expression. An owl so white that the image blinds him. When his head feels as if it is birthing stars, he sees flashes of things, but nothing that makes sense and nothing that has ever happened. A castle next to a lake, a man with white hair and smirking grey eyes, another with red eyes, and it is always the sight of scarlet that sets him screaming. 

He knows it is all hallucination and knows he mustn’t speak of anything the headaches taunt him with. He is one of Madeleine’s boys, born and raised in France, a runaway taken in by the Dealer of Whores, a child who still feels an ache in his calves when he jumps the turnstile at Pigalle and walks up the hill from the Métro. He is a child who never cries when his patrons whip and beat him, because he feels no pain, save the pain that the headaches bring, a pain spiralling through his mind like a windstorm and blowing everything to pieces. 

\--

“He said he’ll get you to cry next time,” Alain says, opening the door, carrying a tray with bread and fruit, salve and pills. Alain, who moves so gracefully, who looks out of place here half the time, like he should be in Le Marais and not Montmartre with his moon-white hair and eyes the colour of the Seine when it rains. 

“He always says that,” he replies, still on the bed, listening to the cadence in his head. He doesn’t move as Alain slowly spreads salve over his welts and cuts, but swallows the pills obediently, eyes the bread, and then eats a strawberry instead.

“And he will mean it, soon,” Alain murmurs as he caps the salve and rubs Henri’s temples for a moment, hands moving over Henri’s skin with calm familiarity. “Madé says to eat. You’re getting too skinny and no one will want to fuck you if they can see rib-bones.”

“Yes, Alain,” he says after leaning up to cup Alain’s cheek and then reaching over for another strawberry. “He will mean it, but nothing will change. Nothing ever does.”

Alain smiles, a wry smile that seems better suited to a smooth speaker of lies, almost identical to the one they see on the face of Henri’s most regular client, a man they privately call _Fleur-de-Mal_ and whose hair scalds Henri’s skin like snowflakes. Alain smiles, and then he laughs and says, “From the first day to the last, eh, Henri? Nothing changes for one of Mère Madé's boys. Every day, exactly the same.” 

He watches as Alain leaves, eyes blurring. His head pulsates, and he closes his eyes as he descends to the depth of the only pain he can feel.


End file.
